Yes, he saw his revenge now.

"No, mother, do not speak yet," he cried, as he stamped around the
cell. "Do not speak yet. I've got it!"

He hugged himself with delight, for at that moment Paul Stepaside was
possessed of the devil. He was filled with unholy joy. "It makes one
believe, after all, that there's a God in the heaven. 'Vengeance is
Mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.' Yes, I've heard a man read that
in the old chapel down at St. Mabyn, in Cornwall. 'Vengeance is Mine;
I will repay.' And I will repay too."

Never had he realised that such vengeance would be possible. Why, it
some mighty wizard had been scheming to place a weapon in his hands
whereby he could avenge his mother's wrongs, avenge his own wrongs, and
punish the man who had been his enemy even before he was born, he could
not have placed a more powerful weapon than this. He seemed to possess
the very genius of victory. He did not care one iota about the murder
now, did not trouble as to what verdict any jury might find. The
evidence which might be adduced against him was as nothing. He held in
his hands the sword of justice, which should surely fall on the head of
the man who had that day sat as judge.

He laughed aloud again. "Thank you, mother," he said. "You did right
in coming to me. Yes, it makes everything right--everything,
everything. And to-morrow I'll do it. To-morrow shall be my day of
victory. Dead or alive, it shall be my day of victory. Right shall be
done, justice shall be done, and this scheming, hypocritical villain
shall be dragged in the dust and disgrace and infamy!"

The words had scarcely passed his lips when he came to a sudden stop,
and he gave a low, terrible cry.

"What is it, Paul?" The mother was startled by the look in his eyes,
by the mad agony expressed in his face.

"Mary!" he said.

Oh, the world of sorrow, of defeat, of terror, which seemed to be
expressed in that one word. Yes, he would rejoice, rejoice beyond
words at his father's ignominy and shame. But what of her, the woman
who believed in him, trusted in him against all evidence, the woman who
had defied all conventions in coming to see him, the woman whom he had
held to his heart, and whom he loved more than life? Every blow struck
at her father was also struck at her. His shame would be her shame,
his ignominy would be her ignominy.

It seemed as though the foundations of his life were being broken up.
Why, then, too, if